[fic] thanksgiving
His kitchen is a war zone.
There’s flour spread across the countertops, oil slicking the sink, sugar littering the floor beneath his bare feet, and he’s fairly sure he just quite literally stepped on eggshells.
In the center of it all is one of music’s biggest names, dressed in sweats, an apron, and an old Bowie t-shirt. Wrapped around his waist is a green apron, which Kris knows that they got as a housewarming gift when they moved in together earlier this year but can’t remember having seen since then.
“Adam?” he calls tentatively, and Adam glances over with a small smirk.
“Yes?”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m pouring milk,” he says, and he holds up the measuring cup in his hand, staring at the lines printed on the glass.
“Into what?”
“This bowl.”
“Is there… mix in that bowl?” Kris asks, because he’s a little too nervous to look over and check for himself.
“Yes.”
“So that means you’re… cooking?”
“Baking, technically.”
Baking. He’s baking. He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world- like Adam’s ever been inside their kitchen for any reason other than to get a glass of wine and a grab of Kris’s ass as he made dinner.
“Baby,” Kris starts, considering his words carefully, “I mean this in the nicest way possible but… why?”
Adam rolls his eyes.
“Because it’s Thanksgiving.”
“I’m… not following,” Kris blinks.
“Don’t you eat on Thanksgiving, Kristopher?”
“Yes. I go to my mama’s and eat her cooking- her experienced, delicious cooking that doesn’t require any input from either of us until it’s time to clean up the dishes. I thought that was the whole reason we were flying to Arkansas tomorrow.”
Adam cocks his hip, eyes trained on the bowl in front of him.
“I’ll be sure to tell your mother that the only reason you’re coming home is to eat.”
Kris groans, exasperated and bemused, and places a hand on Adam’s elbow.
“Adam,” he says, tugging a little so that Adam turns to look at him, “Really. Why are you cooking?”
“It’s rude not to bring something.”
“My mother wouldn’t want you to bring anything.”
“My mother would kill me if I didn’t.”
“Then get something at the grocery store.”
There’s a palpable silence and, just momentarily, Kris thinks he’s going to turn around and pretend like Kris had never said anything. Instead he says, low and quiet,
“I just want your family to like me.”
“What?”
“Your family. This is the first holiday we’ve spent together and I need to make a good impression.”
“What, like my aunts and uncles?”
Adam nods, threading a hand into his own hair.
“They’re going to love you either way, Adam. Why would you need to bake for them?”
“Because of what I represent,” Adam spits out, and Kris’s eyes narrow, “You were married and straight, Kris. Then I came along and now you’re the boyfriend of a big gay Jew who paints his nails and jacks off mic stands in concert. I can’t imagine that this is going to be an easy transition for them.”
Kris wraps his arms around Adam’s neck and pulls him down for a kiss. It doesn’t last long- only a few seconds- but Adam seems to relax a bit. Kris lowers his arms to Adam’s waist and hugs him tight.
“They’ll love you because I love you. You don’t need to bring food or something to win them over, just as long as you go and they see how happy you make me. They’ll accept you with open arms because anyone could see how wonderful and kind and funny and sweet you are.”
Adam hugs him back, burying his face into Kris’s hair.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” he says, and he can feel Adam’s smile above him, “Just tone down the amount of blow job jokes you make and we should be fine.”
Adam snickers. When he drops a kiss to his ear, Kris tilts his head up and meets Adam’s lips with his own.
They stand there like that, intertwined and lost in one another for a bit, and when they pull back, Kris sees a spot of flour on Adam’s cheek. He stands on tip-toes and licks it off.
There’s a bigger mess when they’re done in there that afternoon, forty-five minutes later, but both are fans of the nude clean-up and subsequent shared shower.
The next day, they arrive at Kris’s parents’ house with an Entenmann’s cake. It’s hailed as the best dessert at the table- Kris’s aunt’s pumpkin pie had burnt and his sister-in-law’s cookies are a little undercooked. Adam winds his arm around Kris’s waist and talks to his uncle about 80s glam rock, and to his cousin about Lady Gaga.
Kris just smiles and snuggles close until his mother calls him to help clear the table.
There’s flour spread across the countertops, oil slicking the sink, sugar littering the floor beneath his bare feet, and he’s fairly sure he just quite literally stepped on eggshells.
In the center of it all is one of music’s biggest names, dressed in sweats, an apron, and an old Bowie t-shirt. Wrapped around his waist is a green apron, which Kris knows that they got as a housewarming gift when they moved in together earlier this year but can’t remember having seen since then.
“Adam?” he calls tentatively, and Adam glances over with a small smirk.
“Yes?”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m pouring milk,” he says, and he holds up the measuring cup in his hand, staring at the lines printed on the glass.
“Into what?”
“This bowl.”
“Is there… mix in that bowl?” Kris asks, because he’s a little too nervous to look over and check for himself.
“Yes.”
“So that means you’re… cooking?”
“Baking, technically.”
Baking. He’s baking. He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world- like Adam’s ever been inside their kitchen for any reason other than to get a glass of wine and a grab of Kris’s ass as he made dinner.
“Baby,” Kris starts, considering his words carefully, “I mean this in the nicest way possible but… why?”
Adam rolls his eyes.
“Because it’s Thanksgiving.”
“I’m… not following,” Kris blinks.
“Don’t you eat on Thanksgiving, Kristopher?”
“Yes. I go to my mama’s and eat her cooking- her experienced, delicious cooking that doesn’t require any input from either of us until it’s time to clean up the dishes. I thought that was the whole reason we were flying to Arkansas tomorrow.”
Adam cocks his hip, eyes trained on the bowl in front of him.
“I’ll be sure to tell your mother that the only reason you’re coming home is to eat.”
Kris groans, exasperated and bemused, and places a hand on Adam’s elbow.
“Adam,” he says, tugging a little so that Adam turns to look at him, “Really. Why are you cooking?”
“It’s rude not to bring something.”
“My mother wouldn’t want you to bring anything.”
“My mother would kill me if I didn’t.”
“Then get something at the grocery store.”
There’s a palpable silence and, just momentarily, Kris thinks he’s going to turn around and pretend like Kris had never said anything. Instead he says, low and quiet,
“I just want your family to like me.”
“What?”
“Your family. This is the first holiday we’ve spent together and I need to make a good impression.”
“What, like my aunts and uncles?”
Adam nods, threading a hand into his own hair.
“They’re going to love you either way, Adam. Why would you need to bake for them?”
“Because of what I represent,” Adam spits out, and Kris’s eyes narrow, “You were married and straight, Kris. Then I came along and now you’re the boyfriend of a big gay Jew who paints his nails and jacks off mic stands in concert. I can’t imagine that this is going to be an easy transition for them.”
Kris wraps his arms around Adam’s neck and pulls him down for a kiss. It doesn’t last long- only a few seconds- but Adam seems to relax a bit. Kris lowers his arms to Adam’s waist and hugs him tight.
“They’ll love you because I love you. You don’t need to bring food or something to win them over, just as long as you go and they see how happy you make me. They’ll accept you with open arms because anyone could see how wonderful and kind and funny and sweet you are.”
Adam hugs him back, burying his face into Kris’s hair.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” he says, and he can feel Adam’s smile above him, “Just tone down the amount of blow job jokes you make and we should be fine.”
Adam snickers. When he drops a kiss to his ear, Kris tilts his head up and meets Adam’s lips with his own.
They stand there like that, intertwined and lost in one another for a bit, and when they pull back, Kris sees a spot of flour on Adam’s cheek. He stands on tip-toes and licks it off.
There’s a bigger mess when they’re done in there that afternoon, forty-five minutes later, but both are fans of the nude clean-up and subsequent shared shower.
The next day, they arrive at Kris’s parents’ house with an Entenmann’s cake. It’s hailed as the best dessert at the table- Kris’s aunt’s pumpkin pie had burnt and his sister-in-law’s cookies are a little undercooked. Adam winds his arm around Kris’s waist and talks to his uncle about 80s glam rock, and to his cousin about Lady Gaga.
Kris just smiles and snuggles close until his mother calls him to help clear the table.